CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

1000 hours, Friday Morning June 30th

St. Paul's Roman Catholic Church

Murdoch felt agitated. He usually enjoyed running his eyes over the interior of St. Paul's, soothed by the regular symmetry and repetition of the roman arches and linear columns; all the curves, rondelles and round margins were so different from the jagged edges of life - or at least his life. He'd been struggling with what to say to his priest, his friend, trying to decide what lines to cross and which ones to stay behind.

This morning the disquiet followed him into the sanctuary where his eyes refused to rise above the backs of the pews. In his mind, all he could see was Liza - the curve of her cheek, the delicate laugh lines around her eyes, the sweep of her bottom lip. He sat there on an oak pew waiting for Eddie to finish with a last confession, unable to kneel and pray, his hat in his left fist to hide its nakedness.

A black-clad widow exited the right-hand curtained booth to take her place in the sanctuary to pray. He sat patiently outside the confessional until the center curtain twitched, then Eddie came out to join him.

"How may I be of assistance?" Eddie's voice was gentle, a touch of humour in the question.

So, do you need your priest or your friend? Father Edward or Eddie? He wavered, afraid that if he started talking about Liza he'd break down again, and that would never do - he wasn't so sure he'd be able to stop weeping.

After a long pause, he finally said: "I want your help, Eddie."

Eddie smiled. "All right, Will. Come."

He followed Eddie to his office, down the short hall from Pastor W. L. Head's door. He waited silently while Eddie fixed some tea, served them both and sat.

"Will, are you in some sort of trouble?"

He straightened. Eddie, like Brackenreid, possessed good instincts. "No, Eddie," he said, choosing to bury away the pain encircling his heart. "Nothing...well nothing about me. I...I want to ask you about a case I am working on. An Anglican priest in Hamilton was murdered eleven days ago. One theory of the crime is that he came into knowledge about an illegal alcohol bootlegging ring - a ring responsible for the deaths of more than forty people - and was murdered because of that knowledge."

"Priests are privy to many pieces of information, including secrets, in their normal course of duty. We are not generally known as gossips."

He nodded. "In Father Doulton's case...it was suggested this was even more than sharing gossip. What I am having trouble with is imagining a priest violating the Seal of Confession."

Eddie stilled, swallowed his tea, and put the cup down. "Nor can I. The Seal is inviolable. As with Roman Catholics, in the Anglican tradition, he would be deposed and excommunicated for a direct, intentional violation. Indirect revelation of a confession also results in severe punishment. Even with the permission of the penitent, revealing the contents of confession is a delicate matter. A Catholic priest will suffer torture or death before breaking the seal…my Anglican brethren undoubtedly vow the same."

He considered how difficult it might be to be a gangster's priest. "Even if it was about multiple murders?"

Eddie appeared shocked at the idea, then he sobered. "No, Will. Under the Seal of Confession, not even then."

He shook his head. "No. I hope I can help save the man's reputation in that regard, and focus instead in other directions. Thank you for your time." He stood to leave, satisfied with getting confirmation. A small part of him felt better about the universe.

In the doorway, Eddie stopped him, his gaze searching. Murdoch tried to offer a bland look, not wishing to be open to Eddie's penetrating gaze. The two of them had been thick as thieves back in school, often communicating a plan with a mere glance.

"Will, come to confession and Mass. Come back and see me. Soon. We should talk."

His right hand automatically rose towards his inner jacket pocket where his solicitor's communication rested, weighing him down. Eddie, his friend, would tell him talking about it might help him decide what to do. Father Cullen, his priest, would try and help save his soul.

A lost cause...

"I will Eddie, I will," he lied - Just one more sin - knowing he was not hoodwinking his friend or his priest.

"One thing before you go, Will. As much as it pains me, not every priest can be trusted. This is the world we live in now. Not everyone keeps their vows."


1100 hours, Friday Morning June 30th

10 Terauley Lane

Auguste Tillou's establishment was situated in a fine Second Empire brick house with stone trim work on the door and windows, topped by a slate mansard roof. It was decidedly more upscale than where Conrad Landswell rented his house-full of good taste. He rang the bell and waited until one side of the carved coffin doors opened. "Detective Murdoch of the Toronto Constabulary. I wish to speak with you, please." The empresario was about Murdoch's height, silver-haired and bespeckled, his grey eyes giving Murdoch a skeptical once-over before admitting him to his salon.

"Thank you, Mr. Tillou. Your name and your establishment came up during a murder investigation." He saw the pursed lips on Mr. Tillou and his eyebrows arch. Apparently, the man read the morning papers. "I understand you rent art to patrons, and that you rented an oil painting by Petrus van Schendel to Mrs. Lucinda Ogden, called 'The Love Letter,' for a period of three months."

Mr. Tillou looked over the top of his glasses, then smiled. "Ah, yes. We usually do not advertise the names of our patrons, but, yes, Mrs. Ogden is one of mine. She called me, asking me to cooperate with you. Lovely woman with excellent taste."

For the avant guard or outré you mean. He coughed. "Can you tell me please how you come by what you rent? Do you own all the works, or are you an agent for the artist?"

Tillou's face clouded. "Oh, I am not certain it is proper for me to explain the... arrangements I have. My clients rely on my discretion."

"May I remind you this is a murder investigation, sir?" His head still pounded and he may have spoken more sharply than he intended, but it got results. Mr. Tillou paled, rushed to put a 'closed' sign on the door, and motioned him to a private back room.

"Detective, I facilitate an exchange between the art owner who is either looking to recoup some of his or her investment, hoping to resell on the private market, or is...ahem, bored with the piece, and I connect him or her with an art patron who will appreciate it."

"In exchange for cash," he said bluntly, refusing the chair which was offered, not having the time or patience today for politesse. As soon as he was done here, he was off to rattle some of Rocco Perri's cages - going home for some sleep be damned. "I require the provenance of 'The Love Letter.' Now, Mr. Tillou. If you please."


Three o'clock Friday Afternoon-

Morgue

Julia waited in her office in the morgue as long as she could, frustrated at how long it took to get an un-satisfactory answer from the St. Catharines Receiving Home about Olive Routledge's children. Ultimately, she only got the name of two orphanages where the children might have gone and stern notice she was interfering in an affair where she had no business.

Well! she huffed. I wonder how they will react to Ruby discovering it necessary to do a full muck-raking job on the mercy of their merciless system. She already had a list of story leads ready to slip to her sister.